


Conquest

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to be the one to wield the knife.</p>
<p>(Sansa and her forces march on the ruins of Winterfell to destroy Ramsay Bolton and reclaim the North.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquest

 

The scent of viscera pushes into her nostrils, sharp and bracing, and the way her blood rushes, the way her heart thunders in her ears-  _alive, alive, I”m alive_ , even as death surrounds her on all sides.   
  
She races through crumbling corridors, the skeleton of what was once her father’s proud castle. One of her heels breaks off, but she doesn’t care- she sheds both shoes, dashing barefoot, unaware of the ice-slicked stone beneath her feet. In her peripherals, she sees a flash of yellow and silver- Brienne, felling three sentries in one steady blow- and a flash of green and brown- Hyle Hunt, slicing one of Bolton’s lieutenants open from nose to navel. But it’s the streak of white and gold, trailing after a blurred, dark figure, that holds her attention now.    
  
Sansa runs and ducks and jumps- the tip of an arrow grazes her shoulder, but she barely makes a peep, and she slows her pace not at all.    
  
When she bursts into the chamber that was once her father’s solar- nothing but an open landing now, framed by jagged pieces of wall- she holds in the archway for a moment. Jaime has Ramsay Bolton pinned to the largest portion of wall, the golden hand pressed tight to the man’s neck. Bolton squirms and struggles; he attempts to reach for his blade, but he’s no match even for Jaime’s weaker hand; the Lion of Lannister swipes his dagger across Bolton’s open palm and up to his thumb, cutting until the finger dangles, attached by nothing but a thin strand of sinew.    
  
Bolton opens his mouth to scream, but the golden hand digs deeper and deeper into his throat, until his breaths fade to shallow pants-   
  
A rush of adrenaline seizes her, and she cries out: “Stop!”   
  
Jaime does not release Bolton, but he turns his head to look at her. A fire blazes in his eyes, his face is streaked with blood and sweat, bits of pink and red and white cling to his beard-   
  
Sansa has never thought him more beautiful.   
  
“My lady,” her knight hisses through clenched teeth, “this traitorous scum must die. He dies, and you win Winterfell.”   
  
“I know,” she replies. Her body feels as if it floats in mid-air as she crosses the chamber and reaches for the sharp dagger girded at her side. “But I want to do it myself.”   
  
Jaime’s eyes flicker in a way that sends a warm pulse down between her legs, and he nods. In a single, graceful motion, he shifts his position; his left hand now grasps Bolton’s hair and holds him fast to the wall, while the golden one punches into his abdomen.    
  
A thin trickle of blood leaks out the side of Ramsay Bolton’s mouth, combining with saliva and a strange white foam. Even so, he meets her gaze with defiance, thin lips moving without sound. All Sansa can hear is the pounding of her own heart as she draws the blade across his throat.    
  
To her horror, he does not die right away. She saws into his neck once, twice, three times before the life seeps from him. She is sure that he would scream, had he still any agency over his voice. She feels every crack of bone, every snap of muscle- her face burns, the skin damp with sweat and saline. But at long last, Bolton slumps against Jaime’s body like a rag doll, and the Lord Commander releases his corpse to the floor.   
  
Sansa lets her dagger fall from her fingers. She tries to breathe, but her body buzzes with such force, every inch of her skin prickles, every muscle tingles and shivers and shakes. She’s heard warriors speak of this, the vigor that can only come from taking a life with one’s own hand. But to experience it herself (and poisoning can hardly count, there’s nothing this raw about dropping some poison into a cup of Arbor wine)-    
  
Jaime takes a single step toward her, his eyes fixed on her quivering form, radiating with a wild, bristling energy. Her gaze smolders into his, and then-   
  
She launches herself into his arms, caring not a bit about how forcefully her chest collides with the metal of his breastplate. Her blood-stained hands grasp at his hair, and she devours his mouth, the boiling in her veins demanding more, more...   
  
He squeezes her to him until she feels her lungs clench, but she welcomes it, welcomes the ferocity. His boot roughly kicks Bolton’s corpse to the side, and he pushes her back against the wall- the wall, still warm from Bolton’s body, spattered with ruby-dark blood.    
  
Their hands are clumsy, fighting each other to pull open breeches and tear away smallclothes. But then Jaime hoists Sansa up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, the stone hard and rough against the nape of her neck and the back of her skull. He nuzzles his face into her neck and kisses her there, but she wants him on her mouth, wants to pass this energy back and forth, gaining more strength with each exchange.    
  
He thrusts into her harder than he ever has before, but it only startles her for a moment. Then she’s digging her heels into his lower back, pushing her hips into him, scratching at the back of his neck as she pants, “More, more...”   
  
She grabs his face, leaving a streak of blood behind- in a sudden impulse, she pulls him close enough to lick the crimson liquid from his cheek. The traitor’s blood is metallic, sharp, salty- it tastes of conquest, of victory.    
  
A series of quick thrusts, so forceful that her spine grinds against the stone, and Jaime comes inside her. As she unwraps her legs and slides down the wall to find purchase on the ground, her bare foot lands on Bolton’s face.   
  
She digs her heel hard into his flesh before standing upright, her hands never leaving Jaime’s shoulders.   
  
The chill of Jaime’s golden hand tickles under her chin, and he turns her face up to kiss her swollen lips. It is the softest, gentlest, sweetest kiss he’s ever given her, and her heart tightens when he breaks away, scanning her face with those impossibly-vibrant green eyes.   
  
But then he kneels and takes her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles before offering her his sword.    
  
“Hail to Queen Sansa of House Stark, the first of her name, lady of Winterfell and ruler of the sovereign kingdom of the North.”   
  
The young queen stands barefoot in her bloodstained rags, a fresh kill behind her, a maimed and disgraced knight kneeling at her feet.   
  
And she smiles, white wolf’s teeth glowing bright in the cold winter sun.


End file.
